Good Things, Small Packages
by kkolmakov
Summary: Collection of one-shots centered around Thror, Unna, Dain and Othin, the children of Thorin Oakenshield (modern AU John Thorington) and my OC, Wren, as well as Wren's daughter, Mira. Prompts, verbal in PMs and reviews, songs and visuals on Pinterest, are most welcome!
1. Othin and the Question of a Shield

**DISCLAIMER! ****Please read!**

**The protagonists of the following one-shots are the children of Thorin Oakenshield (modern AU John Thorington) and my OC, Wren (modern AU Wren Leary). they have appeared previous in some of my other stories, if you need clarification, feel free to message me!**

**Thror**** (modern AU Thomas): basically mini-Thorin.**

**Unna**** (always Unna): royal pain in the sensitive areas, daddy's girl.**

**Dain**** (modern AU Dane): best from Wren and Thorin, pure magic, rainbows, unicorn and merengues, and every girl's dream. Basically Sam Heughan in "Outlander" :D**

**Othin**** (modern AU Oliver): appearance based on ****Dimitris Alexandrou, heartthrob of Erebor, no fear, always a smile.**

**Mira****: Wren's daughter from Amrod (modern AU Auggie Anderson), adopted by Thorin/John in all universes**

* * *

**Stories in this one-shot dump will have no rhyme or reason, will happen in different verses, and many characters who could never meet will be best of mates here :D **

**There will be modern AUs, Frerin is alive, and of course there will be age discrepancies :D But for Dain's high cheekbones and Othin's grins, you will forgive me, won't you? :)**

**I'll try to make it as clear as possible when and where the events are happening :D**

* * *

**I have ****Pinterest****, and there is a board dedicated to Thorin/John and Wren's children there. Have a peek! And again Sam Heughan as Dain rocks! :P **

**This first one-shot was inspired by the photo of ****Dimitris Alexandrou****, the face of Othin, in a tux and on a skateboard.**

* * *

OTHIN AND THE QUESTION OF A SHIELD

_Middle Earth, 3009 TA _

"If an Elf can do it, I can do," Othin is grinning giving a wide Dwarven shield in his hand a measuring look.

"Making premature, most possibly erroneous statements is exactly the definition of stupidity," Othin's older brother, Dain, son of Thorin, the second prince of Erebor is sitting on a bench, apple in his hand.

"Will you help me or not, lulkh?" Othin puts the shield back on the stand and picks up a larger one. "You fraternize with the wood wimps, you should know what and how." Othin places the shield on the ground and jumps on it. The shield rocks, but he keeps his balance. "A flat one would work better… But again, the pale wimp can do, so can I!" Othin turns to his brother and gives him a wide smile. "How do I look?"

"Like a Dwarf with bones that will shatter in a matter of minutes," Dain takes a large bite from his apple with gusto. "And the aforementioned pale wimp is Prince Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood, and a man who saved your father's life twice. Are we still insulting him?"

"Prince?" Othin is testing his shield wiggling his hips side to side, "I thought it was a lass." Having ensured the steadiness of his toy, the youngest Prince of Erebor lifts one foot and pushed from the ground. With a screeching noise the shield moves several inches ahead. Dain cringes from the noise and from the view of paint and wood slivers burst from under Othin's rather impressive weight. Dain's younger brother is completely Dwarven in appearance, having inherited his father's wide build and dark waves of silken strands, nothing in him from his mother, a red-haired woman of Men.

"Should I call Oin now or we will wait till you decorate the Lower Passage with your teeth?" Dain has finished his apple and throws the core into a narrow window behind him. They are in the Erebor Viaduct, there is the Low Passage below them, an open gallery, with stairs leading down to it, and Othin has dragged his transport to the edge of the staircase.

"I think we need a bet. It is dull without a bet," there is a helmet of Othin's head, but Dain doubts it is an adequate precaution. The staircase is long and steep.

"Alright, if you fall and smash your face, we will not tell amad that I was here and did not stop you," Dain offers and jumps off the bench.

"Deal, and if I win you let me train with adad's sword for one day," Othin gives his brother one of his myriads of grins. Othin smiles, always, sometimes sunnily, sometimes it is more of a snarl, but never a gloomy face. He also knows no fear and there is not a single maiden in Erebor who is not at least slightly infatuated with him. Many married Dwarven dames might also sigh when he passes by.

"Half a day. You get half a day with Orcrist if you slide down these stairs on this shield without falling off and jump off at the end as smoothly as Prince Legolas Greenleaf." The answer to him is a wide radiant grin.

"Still think it was a lass," quips Othin, son of Thorin Oakenshield and Wren of Enedwaith, healer from the city of Dale, and he jumps on the shield, pushing away with his other foot.

The shield slides down the stairs with a deafening rumble, Dain has half a thought of squeezing his eyes and turning away, while Othin looks like he had just found a treasure bigger than the riches of Erebor, and with a victorious 'hee-yah' he surges down.

Dain rushed to the stairs, to see for himself, and if needed to pick up his brother from the floor, and in front of his eyes the edge of the shield snatches on the last step, and together with the third prince of Erebor, the already distorted piece of wood and steel flies aside.

Othin lands on his backside and emits a tirade of the most exquisite swearings in Khuzdul. Dain discreetly exhales in relief and bounces down the stairs to his brother, who is still sitting on the ground shaking his head.

"It was an Elven shield for sure, they are probably as smooth as their chins," Othin gives his verdict and gets up with a groan.

"Amad will never find out of this," Dain shakes his finger in front of his brother's nose.

"Agreed, and we are only telling adad of it if the second attempt is successful."

Othin is marching up the stairs already giving the shield stand an evaluating look, when Dain exclaims behind his back, "What second attempt?"

* * *

**PROMPTS ARE MOST WELCOME!**

* * *

amad = (Khuzdul) mother

adad = (Khuzdul) father

lulkh = (Khuzdul) oaf


	2. Dain and Othin

**A/N: I am moving some older one-shots here if they talk about the kiddies.**

* * *

DAIN AND OTHIN

_Middle Earth, original Wren and Thorin, Timeline#1_

_Wren's POV_

Your two youngest children are chalk and cheese. From quite an early age they are often mistaken by other races for being twins, though very different in appearance they are the same height through most of their lives. Not by the Dwarves though, who do not have two children at once, the smallest difference between siblings being six years. Dain and Othin are viewed as a miracle of Erebor, the latter born only two years after his brother.

The older one of the two brothers, Dain is the least Dwarven in appearance among your children, lither and thinner than the rest, hair of deep red colour, eyes green as leaves of the oaktree he was conceived under. He has his father's profile and your cheekbones.

Othin is stocky, close in his build to the King and Thror, the oldest prince of Erebor. He has wide open blue eyes, and he is always smiling. If angered or frustrated, he fights and rages, but still with a grin on his face. He is always looking for trouble and always finds it. When punished for yet another broken bow stolen from older warriors or ponies let out of the stables, he gives an apologetic smile as if saying, "But wasn't the fun worth it?" He is easy to understand and predict.

His older brother is anything but. Quiet, seemingly lost in his thoughts, he is the closest to you of all your children. He is a skillful swordsman, the only one allowed to touch the King's renowned sword. He is deadly and unpredictable in a fight, while his younger brother is all brutal force and lunge. Othin wields two battle hammers and keeps them under his bed. Dain never uses his magic in training fights.

Dain is the only of your sons who remains close to you after he reaches the age when he is allowed to train with older Dwarves. He still comes to you in the evenings after the day in the training yard. When he knows that no one will see you two, he lies his head on your lap while you sit on a large bench reading your books. His hair is soft and runs through your fingers.

Since Othin learnt to walk he is always somewhere above your eye level. First, you had to take him off tall shelves and more often that you care to remember from the canopy of your bed. The King retains the habit of checking the bedroom for his youngest son before pulling on the strings on your tunic long after Othin moves into his separate chambers on the other side of the Royal Halls.

Later, he is often seen climbing on the supports in the mines and forges under the Lonely Mountain. He is the only Dwarf you know who is fond of heights. You suspect that he probably hates them like any other but cannot pass any challenge in front of him. For the same reason he often demands his brother to practice swording with him. After five minutes he lifts his face from the muddiest puddle in the yard, Dain takes additional pride in knocking him down in the most humiliating spot, and grins. "Again!"

'Again' was his first word. The King was teasing him with a rattle and then gently thumped him to the top of the head, when the prince was too slow to batter it away.

"Again!" He was laughing and baring his teeth. Many years later this wide ferocious smile will be the biggest fear of his foes on a battlefield.

Dain learns to read very young and seems to be entranced with the Erebor Library. Sometimes you have to remind him to go to bed. Myrna, the Erebor librarian, secretly, or at least she thinks so, brings him food there. He never takes time from his training to read but his sleep and rest often suffer.

The first burst of Dain's magic comes with his first breath and his first scream. The circumstances of his birth are so ungovernable, the King being the only person with you that day, stranded in the middle of a storm with nothing to assist you in labour but one blanket and a bucket of water. The golden sparks hit the King into the face, rush through his arms, umbilical cord still connecting you and your son. Dain's second furious scream is louder and the walls are shaking from the surge of his magic.

He learns to reign it early, in simple perfect harmony, while you after half century of coexisting with yours still feel like it is an untamed beast on a feeble leash. Dain is entertaining his brother in his cot by producing golden balls bouncing from walls and ceiling. He hides his magic from everyone else except you and his brother, until the King takes him into his study and they have a long conversation there, the contents of which you never find out. Dain comes out of the chamber with straighter shoulders and more self-assurance that you have ever seen in him before that day.

* * *

You walk through a passage and hear soft quiet voices from one of the alcoves. Your two youngest children are sitting in front of each other, some small object between them concealed by their bodies. Their heads are touching, lowered over whatever seems to absorb their attention so much. You peek. It is a dead frog.

Othin's voice is full of tears. "I didn't mean to… I didn't see him there, just put the hammer down..." It is the rarest picture, your youngest without a smile on his face. He is nine and for Dwarves he is still almost an infant. But not for his older brother. Dain is frowning and gently touches the leg of the animal.

"Even if you didn't mean it, it is your fault. He was alive and now he is dead." Othin sobs.

"Can't you do anything? Alike what you did with the bird's wing?"

"The bird was injured, this one is dead. Do you know what dead is, Othin?" Othin nods.

"Would he not have a bit of life left in him?" He sounds hopeful. "He is not completely squished." Dain sighs.

"I'll try but you have to remember what he looks like now, Othin. See this?" He lifts the front paw and it falls floppily on the floor. Othin sobs again. "That what hammers and swords do. You have to remember when you lift them, that is how it ends."

And then he covers the little slimy body with his palm, and warm golden glow surrounds the frog. Othin is holding his breath. The long webbed legs twitch, and the frog jumps up, fully recovered and only slightly squished. Your sons laugh and catch it.

"Let's put him back where you took him," Dain's voice is soft. It reminds you of your own voice when talking to the King when he is repentant after some mistake he made. The tone reassures that all is forgiven but reminds that nothing is ever fully forgotten.

You step in the shadow and watch the two princes walk pass you through the passages, shoulders touching, both staring at the thrashing frog in Dain's gentle hands. Mother's love for her children is undoubting and eternal but at the moment you also feel pride and gratitude for being the one who brought these lives into this world.


	3. In the Morning

IN THE MORNING

_Middle Earth, original Wren and Thorin, Timeline#1_

_Wren's POV_

Thror is a true replica of his father. Stocky, wide shouldered, with large, immensely strong arms. Blue eyes are gleaming with ardour, dark wavy hair to his shoulders. Black thick beard is adorning his face. He is crabby, even more so in the mornings, stubborn, and vain. You adore him with all your heart, furthermore so for the resemblance to his father, but at the moment you consider smacking him at the back of the head. Which no Dwarven mother would do to a youngling half battle age, but you might conveniently remember that you are no Dwarf.

They are both sitting at the table and are having breakfast. Peevish faces, drawn brows, noble curved lips pressed together in a pique, and they grumble. For the last half an hour you have been watching two identical jaw lines moving and listening to an endless list of complains that these two Dwarves have about everything that is wrong with this world. Which is literally everything that there is in this world.

The water in the morning was too cold, the sun rose too early, what is indeed wrong with the spring this year, and obviously the swords haven't been sharpened properly. They simultaneously take decorous yet masculine sips from their mugs, and nod solemnly to each other.

"Have you finished your sword training with Kili yesterday, Thror?" The prince makes an irritated face.

"He was coddling me again. At least Master Dwalin doesn't. Last week he smashed the hammer into my breastplate so hard that I flew all the way through the training yard." You choke on your seedcake. Thorin gives you a sideglance.

"Do not worry your mother, Thror."

"There is nothing to worry about, amad. That is how it should go. I need to learn to take a blow." Would a smack at the back of your head be a good practice? You stuff another piece of cake into your mouth to silence yourself.

You watch your older son meticulously chew a piece of cheese. Thorin picks up another one from a platter for himself. They both share an immense fondness for it. Like two giant black mice, they devour it before you can say 'two cantankerous Dwarves.'

"Oh, I forgot," the prince's face lights up gleefully, and you brace yourself. "Uncle Fili promised to gift me with that pair of hunting knives!" He is exuberant. "He said my hands are deft enough for them already! We are to practice with the throwing axe today as well!"

You get up, slam your hands into the surface of the table, and two pairs of cerulean eyes are on you. You take a long breath, and without a word you leave the room. Almost running, you are striding to the nursery. Daughter, you have a daughter. In her chambers you will find sanctuary.

The princess jumps out of her closet. She is clad in her father's shirt that is without doubt to represent a brigandine, and with a deafening battle cry "Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!" she runs by you shaking a wooden sword in her hand in a pursuit of an imaginary foe. You sit on her bed and groan.

Marry a Dwarf and forever live on a battlefield.


	4. Unna

UNNA

_Middle Earth, original Wren and Thorin, Timeline#1_

_Wren's POV_

Your only female offspring, Unna, the daughter of Thorin, by the age of 30, a mere youngling for a Dwarf, has determined the two main interests in her life. They are weaponry and coquetry.

She is beautiful and sensual, with her thick luscious hair inherited from her father and the dark brown eyes of your mother, and if that doesn't gain her a heart of yet another misfortunate Dwarf who was unlucky enough to catch her ardent, though fleeting interest, her exceptional swording skills and expertise in weaponry definitely do.

She is the daughter of her father. If she desires, she acquires.

She is in no way promiscuous, she is flirty, yet judicious. Sometimes you have a feeling that conquering and breaking hearts for her is a sort of a game, as if she is keeping an immaculate score record in her head. She never seems to feel too deeply towards her suitors, always more interested in acquiring a new skill in crafts, and even less so she is concerned with their destiny after she finds a different object of desire.

She is a genuine Dwarven woman, chaste in everything but words, prepared, if it is ever to come, to mate for life and belong to her husband fully. Except not any time soon, since for her there is still so much to learn and to try.

Out of all your children she seems to suffer most from her mixed descent. Since she was a small child, she lamented her narrower than characteristic for a Dwarven woman waist and her soft facial features. As a child she compensated by beating up other girls, and boys for that matter, who dared say something or even look at her the wrong way. In many cases the offences for which she was punishing them were the fruit of her own imagination.

You suspect that her reaping of poor defenseless hearts now that she is turning into an alluring young woman is the grown-up equivalent of pushing a Dwarven child face down into a sticky mud puddle.

Having insisted that her older brother and Master Dwalin were to teach her sword and axe fight, she quickly became a skilled warrior, her flexible and lighter build an actual advantage for once. She is so adept that the King gifts her with a short Dwarven sword at the age of ten. She also possesses several sets of throwing knives, mostly gifts from her favourite cousin, so called Uncle Fili.

Unlike her brother Dain, she does not manifest any magical abilities, though when pregnant with her you felt some strange magic swirling in your blood. You suspect that even if she possesses any, she probably rejected it so decisively, it has been thwarted at the root.

She renounces your magic and your weak human nature, and it takes you both a few years to find your footing in your relationships. You do not share any interests. Books and healing never spark any curiosity in her. You do not approve of her abusing her feminine charms to get what she wants and her greed for gold though you expected it, her being a daughter of Dwarf. You often have heated discussions that make the King and her brothers flee into the Lower Halls.

For the first time in your life you feel that you have to prove your worth. You have always been certain that the way you build your life is the right path for you and of your concern only. And there you are, staring in the eyes of a stubborn Dwarven youngling, and these eyes are full of doubt and deprecation.

You win her over. You spar with her, again and again getting an upper hand, thrust after thrust, striking her breast plate, knocking a shield out of her hands, pushing her on the ground, your sword again and again pressed to her throat. You take her into the city on your rounds, and as much as she hates the tedious hours of attending to the sick and the expectant mothers, she has to see the respect and loyalty of your people towards you. You allow her to be present at the royal council and to hear the King asking for your advice and older Dwarves attentively listening to your judgement.

You have long conversations and achieve a certain degree of understanding. You accept each other and establish boundaries. Each one of you honours the path the other chose in her life. She understands that your demure attires and soft manners do not mean you are weak or simple. You allow her continue her sportive ways, surrounded by her peers, showing her that you trust her judgement.

* * *

The day when you become true friends and you feel you finally gained her respect is the day when the Elvenking Thranduil and his son Legolas arrive to Erebor with their first official visit since the fallout with King Thror.

Afterwards, you think that until that day Unna's perception of Elves was only built on what the other Dwarves would tell her about them, and although your peoples have established a friendly alliance, the eternal animosity will never be forgotten between your races.

Unna is not allowed out of her chambers that day according to old Dwarven traditions of concealing their females from others. She is overwhelmed with curiosity, and you allow her and several of her girlfriends to peek through the window of your chamber when the procession of Silvan Elves arrives, their green banners and glowing argent armour standing out on the familiar landscape of Erebor.

After the official meetings and celebratory dinner you accompany the King of Mirkwood on his walk through the halls of Erebor. A small smile plays on his lips, and you return it in a quiet companionship and silence. You both are obviously reminded of the walks you have partaken, when expecting Unna you stayed in his Kingdom.

"I am pleased to see that time does not take its toll on you, my lady," Thranduil's voice is low and enticing. "Whether it is your magic hindering your mellowing, I am happy that you retain your radiance and vitality." You lift your eyes at him. He stops and turns to you. "For the sake of your children, of course." You smile to him and nod. He picks up your hand and his cold finger gently press onto yours.

You hear a rustling sound and turn your head. Unna is frozen at her steps, her brown eyes wide open and her shoulders trembling. For a second you allow yourself to admire your daughter. Attired in a heavy draped dress according to the latest fashion, elegant jewels of the most precious gems gleaming on her neck and hands, a few gems hiding in her luscious dark curls, she is a child anyone would be proud to present to their guests. Even if the guest happens to be an Elf. What Unna does not understand yet is that your blood made her attractive to the eyes of other races besides the Dwarves. Her father's straight noble nose and your sensual line of lips, such different features fused in her in a harmonious and graceful visage.

"Unna, allow me to introduce King Thranduil, the Lord of the Woodland Realm. My daughter, Unna, daughter of Thorin, princess of Erebor." The Elvenking lets go of your hand and gives her a small, slow bow. She bows in return, her lips quivering.

"I can tell that you were fortunate to inherit the most invaluable qualities from your parents, Unna, daughter of Thorin." She is pinned down under the cold gaze of the Elvenking's remarkable eyes. You can see that she is taking short shuddered breaths. "Your mother's wisdom, acumen and life force. And her beauty is quite pronounced in your features, Unna, daughter of Thorin, as well as her loyalty and devotion." King Thranduil tilts his head and his lips twitch, which would go doubtlessly unnoticed by any other, but after knowing him for so long, for you it looks as if he is grinning from cheek to cheek. You give a small cough. "And your father's determination," he confers.

She gives him another bow and hastily departs. Later that night you are preparing for bed, and she knocks at the door of your dressing room. You seat her on a large bench by the window and let her ask. You tell her of your life as a healer in Dale, of meeting the King Under the Mountain, of choosing Erebor as your home, of your magic and the interest the Elves and Istari have in it. It was brought from over the seas in the heart of one man and passed on to your mother through his forbidden love to your grandmother. You tell her how the magic allows you to see into the hearts of others and protect the ones you love. Such as it happened when carrying her under your heart, you were wounded on the borders of the Woodland Realm and how you were healed by the magic and herbs of King Thranduil.

"He was holding your hand, amad," her voice is low and trembling.

"We are good friends," you smile to her, "As much as a Dwarf can be friends with an Elf." She does not say it but you know that defiance stirs in her. "As I have chosen King Thorin over any other, thusly I chose Erebor over any other race and kingdom." She is frowning, considering your words.

"You have chosen adad as your King?" You smile and for the first time feel like a genuine mother to her. You stroke her silken hair, so similar to her father's, and speak softly.

"I have chosen him as the King of my heart. One day you will surrender your heart to a man as well, and you will know the clarity and belonging it brings. And how nothing can obscure your understanding of who you are anymore after that. Not even a glorious creature such as the Elvenking Thranduil." She jerks up her face and looks at you in shock. You smile to her, and she giggles.

"They are quite striking, aren't they?" Her tone is mischievous, and you both laugh.

"And remarkable swordmen as well. I have seen Prince Legolas in a fight. He can almost be compared to your adad in his mastery of a single-edged blade." Her eyes widen even more. She moves closer.

"But they are so pale, fragile, thin…"

"I am pale and thin, and yet I can still drop you on your backside any day." She guffaws.

"I thought they would seem repulsive. But they are so..." She inhales but no right word seems to come. You laugh, and she joins you.

That is how the King finds you two, arms wrapped around each other, whispering and snickering.

"What are you two up to here?" His question is met with a roar of laughter. She gets up to leave and gives you a warm smile.

"Good night, Unna."

"Good night, amad. Can we have another talk like that tomorrow again?"

"Of course. And maybe have a small walk together. On the Western balcony over the Upper Halls." She giggles and leaves the room.

The Western balcony gives a wonderful view of the training yard and your guests were invited for a few rounds of sparring the next day.


	5. Dain and the Question of the Past

DAIN AND THE QUESTION OF THE PAST

_Middle Earth, original Wren and Thorin, Timeline#1_

_Wren's POV_

Dain is watering the pots with sage and thyme. You pretend to be absorbed in your book, not to embarrass him. He would not enjoy if you were looking at him, as he is also talking to the plants, murmuring gentle nonsenses to them, stroking the leaves. After a few years in Erebor, the King gifted you with a garden in the higher halls, part of it indoors, warmed up with large stoves, part outside, where your plants can enjoy sunlight. Now that you have Dain you seem to spend more time in here than ever.

He is rubbing a fragrant leaf, his beautiful narrow face pensive, framed with wavy red hair, two thick braids, his bright green eyes adorned with the thickest, longest eyelashes, an envy of most Dwarven girls around him. He licks his bottom lip, in a gesture so similar to his father's, the same strong but sensual line of mouth.

"I have a question, amad," his tone is soft. You love Dain's questions, they are always complicated, come out of the blue and his train of thought is virtually impossible to follow sometimes. He is eighteen, for a Dwarf he is just a child but you know that his intellect and imagination, as well as your blood of Men, make him a much more mature eighteen year old than his peers.

"You may ask it, Dain," you put the book aside.

"Have you loved anyone other than Father?" His slanted eyes are calm, almost unemotional, but you can see the fire hiding in them.

By now you know that to ask Dain for a reasoning behind his questions is a direct path to make him withdraw into the shell of his mind and abandon his line of inquiry. Honesty and openness seem to be the best approach with your third child, his questions often spurring the most exquisite of discussions between you two.

"Have I ever loved another man before your Father?"

He nods and then adds in his usual even, nonchalant tone, "Or a woman. And not only before. Ever." He is cutting off the top leaves from a thyme shrub.

"Yes, once. Before I met your father, there was a man who occupied my heart. With time I understood that we were not meant to be and left. It was many years before I met your adad."

A few moments pass in silence. You are gazing on your son. When absorbed in his thoughts he seems almost ethereal, as if stepping behind an invisible veil, only half present in this world, a surprising quality for a Dwarf, as they are such grounded creatures, all fire and stone.

"Do you regret it?" You smile. Always so perceptive, so inquisitive.

"How can one regret something that one does not have any control over, Dain?" He lifts his extraordinary eyes at you. They are green, a poignant colour, of grass or leaves of an oaken tree.

"That is not an answer to my question, amad." You smile wider.

"You are right, Dain, it is not." You touch the heavy necklace on your neck, the habit of many years. The opals of Nyrnala, the Jewel of Khazad-dum are the familiar weight on your collarbone and warmth shared with the heat of your body. "I do not. For two reasons. It made me who I am, taught me to protect my autonomy, to not let another person determine my decisions." He is listening attentively.

"And the second reason?" You think back on the day when Aldacar, son of Elendil took your hand and asked you to be his.

"Because at that moment it felt right. If you follow your heart and are honest with yourself, even if later it brings you pain, you should not regret that decision." He lowers his hand and fidgets with the garden pincers.

"Does adad know?"

"He does." And then he lifts his face and cocks one brow. At that moment he looks so much like his father that you laugh out loud.

"Something tells me he did not enjoy finding out." You continue laughing.

"No, not particularly." Dain smiles back, a rare wonderful smile.

"Thank you for sharing your story with me, amad."

"Any time, Dain." You go back to your book, and he returns his attention to the pot and the plants waiting for his care.


	6. Dain, Othin, a Spider and a Girl

DAIN, OTHIN, A SPIDER AND A GIRL

_Middle Earth, original Thorin and Wren, Timeline#1_

Dain, son of Thorin, having just reached his battle age five years ago, moves with fluidity and caution, his swift lunge and thrust deadly, his father's Elven blade clasped to his back. While his younger brother is all force and roar, Dain's combat is highly influenced by that of his mentor, Elvenking Thranduil. Having spent the last two years in Mirkwood Dain adopted the low glides and side steps of the Lord of Wooden Realm, which combined with his father's fullbody swirl, blade moving in a loop around each shoulder, with a forceful spin of the wrist, create the terrifying, unstoppable sequence of swording moves.

Othin, the youngest of Thorin's sons, buries his battle axe into the ugly head of yet another Great Spider.

"You fight like a girl!" He yells to his brother and roars with laughter, blue eyes hiding behind black lashes, short and thick.

"I consider that a compliment," Dain steps from behind a tree, wiping the blood of another spider from the wide curved blade.

Another spider drops from the top of the tree, its furry body swollen with more repulsive bloodthirsty varmints hiding inside. An Elven arrow pierces its thick skull, and it emits a screeching noise. Dain pushes his brother away from it, and sliding on the wet grass on the bottom of the misty forest, he drops on his back. Moving on inertia, in full control of his lunge, he stretches his arm, Orcrist chopping the hairy jointy legs of the monster. It collapses on the ground, some of the extremities still twitching.

"I'm not a sack of potatoes, you abanbund!" Othin yells and gets up.

"You are welcome," Dain's low melodic voice is full of sarcasm.

"For what, you brainless dharg? You took away my fun!"

Dain smirks and lifts his face. He is slender for a Dwarf, thick red hair, narrow face, extraordinary green eyes, at the moment glinting with amusement and restrained passion. High above on the branch he sees a lithe silhouette of an Elven maiden. He bows, a low gracious bow, a small smile on his lips. Othin pulls a twig out of his ebony mane.

"You and your nith can go on without me. The spiders are boring!" Othin is grumbling in Khuzdul and walks away.

Dain smiles and stretches his arms up. A svelte body slides in his hands and a pair of elegant arms slides around his neck.

"Morning, kurdu," he looks into the blue eyes of Meltoriel, her pink lips an irresistible magnet. He leans in, and his thick long lashes flutter.

"Morning, aur," the Silvan Elf slides her delicate fingers into his strands, and for a while they are quiet and very, very busy.


	7. Sons of Oakenshield and Marriage

SONS OF OAKENSHIELD AND THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE

_Middle Earth, original Wren and Thorin, Timeline #1_

The Queen is exceptionally beautiful today, an elegant dress of the colour of river pearls, argent ermine fur on the collar and the sleeves, heavy gems around her neck and in her earlobes. The luscious heavy hair is arranged into an intricate do, heavy braids falling on the elegant collarbones. The King leans in and whispers into her ear, "You look magnificent today, kurdu, you are the moon and the stars of this night." The raspy consonants of Khuzdul sound like a caress on his lips, and she returns his smile.

"I am not the center of attention today, my King, but I appreciate your sentiment." He smiles to her lovingly and strokes her chin with the tips of his fingers. Then it is time for his toast. He gets up and picks up the goblet.

"Today we celebrate the love between Bili, son of Bofur, and my sister Unna, daughter of Thorin. May your marriage be plentiful and may Mahal bring you many healthy sons!" The wedding guests cheer, and Thror sees his sister blush. He also notices a lovebite on her neck that peeks out when one of her heavy braids shifts to the side. He shakes his head and smirks. He should prepare for nephews as soon as sixteen months from now. His own sons were born after a full Dwarven term but he does not know how much his mother's human blood influenced his sister's childbearing.

"What are you thinking about, my love?" Queen Fjola's melodic voice shakes him out of his thoughts. He gives her a lopsided smirk.

"Of our sons." His wife sighs.

"Thorin obliterated another set of armour today, you have to convince him to mitigate his temper. Just because he is not pleased, it does not mean he can take it out on valuable items." The Queen is a genuine daughter of her people. Her appreciation for armour and other forged valuables is immense.

"I am afraid he is just trying to live up to the expectation that his name imposes on him," the King smirks, "My father has been known for taking it out on swording dummies."

"I am sure the legendary King Thorin Oakenshield had a much better reign over his emotions."

A loud gleeful guffaw behind then makes them turn their head and look at Dain, the King's younger brother. He is obviously laughing at the previous remark of the Queen.

"Have you not told your wife the story of how our father threw a dummy across the yard and toppled over a carriage of pumpkins once?" Dain's slanted eyes twinkle impishly. The King chuckles. "Or the time after that when he was so enraged with something that our mother said to him during a feast that he had to hastily leave the hall, since he was no fool to say anything back to her, and he closed the door behind him with such force that it cracked from floor to the ceiling?" The Queen looks at the brothers in disbelief.

"It is true." The King confirms, "Amad was the only person who could mollify him in his outbursts." Dain lifts his goblet and gives his sister-in-law a wink. She giggles. No one can resist the second prince of Erebor. Thror lifts his brow, and unknown to him he looks exactly like his father at that moment. Dain slams his palm into his brother's shoulder and leaves to talk to other guests. The Queen turns to her husband.

"Has Dain by chance talked to you about marriage?" Thror chokes on his wine.

"Dain? Is he even aware what marriage is? He seems not here half of the time." Fjola's eyes follow the graceful walk of her brother-in-law.

"Believe my intuition of a woman, my King, he is more than ready. He is beyond his battle age, I'm certain many will be interested. I can consult a matchmaker."

Despite his odd looks and strange interests, Dain seems to attract maidens like flame attracts the moths. He is seemingly ignorant. Unlike his brother Othin, who seems to be in a perpetual state of alert and chasing yet another skirt. His endless pursuit is not explained by the lack of success, but the fleeting nature of his interest. As soon as he knows that he got the attention of a maiden, he seals in with a kiss, which many say can not be that easily forgotten or surpassed in its skill and ardour, and moves on.

"I do not think Dain will fit well into an arranged marriage, my heart, he can hardly survive social restrictions of any sort on everyday basis," the King looks at his brother, who is leaning over a table, and sees yet another Dwarven maiden listen to him with an exaggerated interest, her bosom heaving in a bodice of her velvet dress. The King sighs, "Although it might be the easier way to alleviate many turbulent emotions in Erebor."

"Our marriage was arranged as well, and seems to turn out rather well," Fjola gives her husband a playful glance askew.

He laughs, "The only arranged thing in this marriage was that you forced your mother to hire a matchmaker and introduce us. After that it was all Mahal's will." She smiles to him and squeezes his hand on the table top.

"And see how well it played out. Three healthy sons. You should be proud of yourself."

"My mother used to say that sons are the achievements of mothers," he picks up her hand and presses his lips to her knuckles, "So thank you, my heart, for three sons." She smiles back to him.

"Queen Zundushinh knew what she was talking about. Her maternal achievements are unsurpassable." The guests roar with laughter and cheers, and the King sees his sister in a passionate embrace with her new husband. Their first son is born in sixteen months to the day.


	8. Dain and the Question of Heart

DAIN AND THE QUESTION OF HEART

_Middle Earth, original Wren and Thorin, Timeline #1 _

_Mirkwood, Dain is 43 years old_

Meltoriel is lying splayed on her lover's back, her head propped on her fist, the second hand running through his silken red hair. The long slender fingers twirl a heavy thick strand, and the Dwarf underneath her chuckles.

"Did you know that it was your older sister who gave me the moniker Aras Erebor, the Stag of Erebor, while I was still in my mother's womb?" His Sindarin is impeccable. The Elven maiden laughs.

"Did you know that she harboured unrequited passion for you for years until finally accepting that you prefer me?" Dain turns sharply and swiftly moves her on his chest.

"Dulindil had an eye for me?" Meltoriel wrinkles her perfect nose.

"Will that inflate your enormous ego even more, Dain, son of Thorin?"

"My ego is not enormous, my mother brought me up well."

"And your Dwarven father, have you not inherited his arrogance?" She lifts a brow, and he laughs.

"My mother prefered the word 'cantankerousness.' And no, the men from the line of Durin know their worth and behave accordingly, and no more conceitedly than it is adequate." He feigns haughtiness.

Meltoriel suddenly slides down his body, and her lips are pressed on his stomach beneath the navel. He barks a short guffaw. Her lips are moving on his skin, he feels a caress of warm skillful tongue. He takes a deep breath in, his member stirring to life again. And then she stops and lifts her face to him look at him.

"Why are you here, Aras Erebor?" He lifts his brows in an unconscious imitation of his father's gesture.

"Because you invited me to stay, kurdu." The raspy consonants of his native language sound strange in the sleeping chambers of a maiden of Woodland Realm.

"What does this word mean?"

"My heart." His voice is calm and deep, and she recognizes the peculiar serenity that he carries in him.

"Is that how Dwarves call their lovers?"

"That is how my kin call their beloved." He sees her eyes widen.

"Am I your beloved?"

"Is it not why you decided to invite me to your bed?" She presses her cheek to his abdomen.

"I cannot say that was a mindful decision." He picks her up under her arms and pulls her to align their gaze.

"And which part of my glorious Elven lover was making this decision if not her mind?" His voice is lower, and a thick smooth brow cocks up. She lowers her lips to his ear.

"My kurdu." Her Khuzdul is mediocre but he decides the lesson in pronunciation can wait.


	9. Clever Little Othin

CLEVER LITTLE OTHIN

_Middle Earth, original Wren and Thorin, Timeline#1_

_Othin is seven years old, Erebor_

_Wren's POV_

The King is pushing you into your bedchambers, and you are laughing salaciously. You might have had a bit too much wine at dinner. It was just the two of you, and your mood was light and merry, and you have not noticed how you drank four glasses. You had a lively discussion, interrupting each other, laughing and bickering, and you kept on sipping. And wine always has the same effect on you. Your inhibitions slip, and the King gets shamelessly ravished. He is quite obviously counting on it, since he is already jerking off his doublet.

You swirl in the middle of the room, and he is grabbing the hem of your skirts. You twist out of his reach, laughingly throatily, and then stumble. He catches you and steals a kiss. You bite his lower lip playfully, and he pushes you on the bed. With an oomph you land on your stomach, your bum boosted up, and he is rumbling. Under no circumstances you are allowed to call it purring, which only makes you do it more often. He presses his knee into the bed between your legs, and the scorching palms slide up, from your knees under your skirt, hiking the layers of velvet and silky underskirts up. You moan and claw at the bed.

His mouth presses into the skin of your nape. And then he raspily whispers into your ear, "I am going to make you scream, my Queen." You moan louder and press your hips up into his bulging member.

"Adad?" Othin's happy voice comes from somewhere above your heads, and you immediately sober up. The King jerks your skirt down and straightens up.

"Othin, where are you?" A dark curled head sticks out from above the top of the canopy. Neither of you noticed the weight of a small sturdy body pressing down on the heavy fabric that he is obviously using as a hammock.

"I am here, adad," Othin is smiling, but then again he is always smiling. There are myriads of different grins, smirks and smiles in his arsenal. This one is smug, he is very proud of himself. He climbed on a dizzying height and was not discovered. It is also very much past his bedtime, and he somehow managed to escape three nannies and a guard at his door. Not even Unna, who was an escape artist in her childhood, could manage such feat.

Othin throws his legs over the edge of the canopy, and you press your palms to your mouth. Then he slides down and his bare stomach is hanging in front of your eyes. He is holding to the curtain rod firmly and confidently. The King jumps on the bed and grabs his youngest son across his middle. They both fall on the bed, and you exhale in relief. And then you press your fists in your hips.

"Othin..." Your voice is menacing, but you are not dealing with either of your older children. That is Othin we are talking about.

"Did you see me, adad? I was this tall!" He is wildly gesturing in the air. He sits on the broad chest of his father and grabs his ears to make him pay attention, "On the top, adad, very tall!"

The King gives you a pitiful look over his son's shoulder. He is very fond of Othin's stunts. Othin is not afraid of anything. Anything that would scare a grown up Dwarf out of their senses, only causes Othin to grin wider. Water, heights, wild animals, landslide… Othin lives for thrill. You shake your head.

There is only one thing Othin is afraid of, and that is your wrath. From the earliest age he has assumed his older siblings' fear of your temper, their father a soft clay in their hands. Right now he is so proud of himself, but you have the power to shatter his exuberance. But it is very hard to do under the pleading gaze of the King's blue eyes. You sigh.

"You should take your son to his room, my King. No doubt, his nursery maids are terrified and are running through passages looking for him." The King jumps off the bed, his son under his arm, giggling and swinging his sturdy legs, and they quickly disappear into the passage, chatting amicably, before you changed your mind.

You flop on the bed and close your eyes. And then chuckle. You need a new lock on your chambers' door.


	10. Dain, Son of Queen Filegethiel

DAIN, SON OF QUEEN FILEGETHIEL

_Middle Earth, original Wren and Thorin, Timeline #1_

The first time Elven maiden Meltoriel sees Dain, son of Thorin, second prince of Erebor, is when he is twenty, half adult age for a Dwarf. She hardly pays him any attention, stunned by the entrance of the small figure of Queen Filegethiel through the gates of the Elvenking's Halls. The guard of twenty Dwarves accompany her as she arrives for her visit to Mirkwood. She is fulfilling the promise she gave to Meltoriel's older sister, Dulindil, the midwife who assisted the Dwarven Queen in her expectancy, to come back and bring her second son when he reaches maturity.

The forest is agitated, and Meltoriel begins to think that some of the impossible rumours surrounding Queen Filegethiel's relationships with King Thranduil might contain a grain of truth. Each twig in the woods is fluttering, disturbed in its Winter sleep, anguished energy running through the veins in the trunks of the ancient trees.

The Queen steps ahead, her cloak's hood adorned with argent white fur. The top half of her face is concealed, and Meltoriel sees smiling lips, the bottom one plump and red, the top one unusually curved. Everything in the Queen is a contradiction. Her thin, almost fragile body, all bones and angles, obvious even under multiple layers of heavy Dwarven attire moves with a fluidity and grace, her head set proudly and regally, but the smile on the lips is soft and humble. Small hand slides out of a fur muff, and she throws the hood of her strange narrow face. The amber eyes are astonishing, slanted and brilliant, long black lashes flutter. With her Elven eyes, Meltoriel sees heavy white snowflakes fall on her face, on the bright freckles on the exquisite bridge of her nose and high cheekbones.

King Thranduil makes a step towards her and bestows her a low bow. Never has Meltoriel seen such reverence and tenderness on the face of the Elvenking. The Queen stretches her small hand, and it is enveloped into the long slender fingers of the King. A second of silent communication passes between them, and then Meltoriel hears the clear voice of Queen Filegethiel.

"My Lord, allow me to present my son, Dain, son of Thorin."

She steps aside and only then Meltoriel notices the young Dwarf behind the Queen. He is obviously the son of this mother. The same elegant contour of face, high cheekbones, narrow strong jawline, the same eyes, much brighter shade of green. He is clad in light Dwarven armour, and to her shock Meltoriel sees his father's renown sword clasped in the scabbard on his back. Orcrist, the Goblin Cleaver, the legendary Elven blade forged by Ecthelion, Lord of the Fountain Court, the weapon of the King Under the Mountain, sits on him with an easy familiarity. Dain gives the King a respectful graceful bow.

"It is an honour to be introduced to you, honourable King of the Greenwood the Great." His Sindarin is impeccable, just like his mother's. He receives a cordial nod from the King.

The second time they meet two days later, when she is hurrying through the Elvenking's Halls and sees him sitting on a window sill. There is an open book on his lap, but he is not reading. The look in his startling eyes is distant, and a large palm is stroking the gutter of the book. He notices her and gets up. He bestows her a bow and then his eyes scrutinize her face. He no doubt sees the resemblance. She steps closer.

"Welcome to Mirkwood, Aras Erebor," she is momentarily surprised at her desire to flaunt her knowledge of his personal history. She wonders, why would she want to impress a Dwarf? Half Dwarf she corrects herself, his mother is of Men.

He smiles, and she remembers what they say of his father. The King Under the Mountain is considered attractive even to females of other races. Dain apparently has his profile, the same sensual line of lips, and Meltoriel heard rumours that there are even Elven maidens mad enough to harbour an unrequited longing for King Thorin's blue eyes and strong wide build. Meltoriel finds it preposterous. Even more so, she does not approve of her predecessor's transgressions with the King's nephew. As the new Captain of the Border Guard Meltoriel feels Tauriel tarnished the honour of a proud Elven maiden and betrayed the path of an Elven warrior.

The slanted green eyes run her body, and she realizes that against her better judgement she is affected. By the heat coming from his body, by the serenity and mirth in his eyes, by the grace and lightness of his movements, when he closes his book and steps closer.

"I thank you for your hospitality, honourable Captain." She tenses. Apparently she is not the only one possessing knowledge of the other in this conversation. She also realizes one does not need to ask him questions, his mind swift and perceptive. "Your King was so kind as to allow me to observe the training of your guards, honourable Captain." She does not remember seeing him at the training clearing in the woods. "He also suggested I remained unnoticed." The noble face of the Dwarf is serene.

"And how have you achieved such feat, honourable prince?" He gives her a calm, almost absent-minded smile.

"I possess magic to conceal me in the forests. Also, Mirkwood seems to be favourable towards me," He looks at the dark trunks of the trees outside the window, "The woods have welcomed my return."

She is staring at him, her chest heaving with agitated breaths. She tries to remind herself he is a Dwarf, a creature of lifeless stone, fire and ax, brutal and barbaric, greedy for cold dead gold. He cannot understand the woods and feel the life force of Mirkwood. But she cannot seem to tear her eyes from an elegant jawline, delicate cheekbones and long black lashes, his eyes fixed on the dim shadows of the forest.

"I envy you, honorable Captain. When I was a child my mother used to take me and my brother to spend nights in the woods around Erebor. My brother hated it," Dain chuckles, "He is all about metal and fire, and preferably combined in a forge and eventually shaped in a weapon of sorts. So we would go just the two of us. We would wander for hours, and then spend nights in the tent. Sometimes we would not return home for weeks."

"And what did your father think about it?" She does not know why she is asking and why she is stepping closer. He turns to her, and she sees mischievous glint in his eyes. She just saw the same slightly sarcastic amusement in the eyes of The Queen of Erebor during the celebratory dinner.

"You have met my mother, honourable Captain, no one contradicts her."

"Queen Filegethiel is a persuasive diplomat," Meltoriel remembers the clear and calm manners of the Queen. The regal tone makes a person listen, the wise words make them obey.

"She is also more stubborn than any Dwarf," the prince suddenly laughs, and her eyes widen in disbelief. "I think after all these years no one doubts that she will get what she wants. Father stopped resisting long ago and just follows her will."

Meltoriel cannot believe such insolence. Speaking of one's parents in such words! And then she hears a soft rustle of the fabric behind her. She turns around and sees the Queen. In a heavy white velvet dress, decorated with river pearls and onyxes, low cut showing a heavy opal necklace, she is a harmonious and notable presence.

"Do not scare our gracious host, Dain," she is laughing, "I am as timid as a rabbit." She comes to her son and ruffles his hair. There is a braid hidden in his mane, and the colour of the strands is indeed remarkable. Dulindil predicted it, coining his moniker Aras Erebor, the Stag of Erebor. She has a gift of seeing the outline of all of a babe's life while they are still in their mother's womb. She also predicted his preeminent gift and his wisdom. Meltoriel can see now why her sister was so fascinated by him. She also sees that he will grow into a very beautiful man, and she recoils from her own thoughts. A Dwarven prince is of no interest for her, an Elven warrior and the Captain of the Guard of Mirkwood.

Mother and son are looking into each other eyes, and the Queen smirks. She turns to the Meltoriel.

"Has he been telling you what a terrible tyrant I am and how everyone is afraid of my disapproval? Because that would be a shameless and utter lie. Never have I managed to persuade any King of anything." Meltoriel does not miss the plural mentioning of Kings. There is a story somewhere there, with King Thranduil's name mentioned in it, but she does not know if she is willing to hear it. He is her sovereign, and something tells her that the fact that the small redhaired woman is wearing the heavy opal necklace and not his ring on her finger means that he has not triumphed at least in one battle in his life.

"Allow me a bold request, honourable Captain," the Queen's tone is polite. It also does not leave any room for refusal. Meltoriel nods, "My son would like to join you in your patrol tomorrow. I assure you he will not be a burden. Although as you can understand, a mother is never impartial," her slender hand lies on her son's shoulder, and he suddenly presses his cheek into it. The gesture, though it could understood as almost childish and showing vulnerability, shows warmth and openness between the two and makes him look only more mature.

"I might be too slow for our friends, amad," His eyes are laughing, "A Dwarf stomping through Mirkwood, what a ridicule!" The Queen laughs and strokes his thick chestnut beard.

"I am sure our hosts will be forgiving. Will you, my friend?" She looks into Meltoriel's eyes and lifts a brow. Meltoriel remembers what Dulindil told her about the Dwarven Queen. She remembers her sister's admiration for the Queen's ability to gently impose her will, among other things her talent to conceal a command in a form of a question.

"My guard would be honoured, my lady." Meltoriel bows to the small woman and receives a radiant smile in return.

"Well, with this settled, I will go and convince honourable healer Lumorn to gift me with a collection of his draughts that he did not know he wanted to share with me," her eyes are laughing. Then she turns to her son, and he gives her a lopsided grin. She tut-tuts and shakes her head, "You look so much like your father," she cups his face and rubs her thumb to his temple, in an apparently customary caress, "Do not follow his example, ghivasha, be careful on the patrol."

He nods, "I promise, amad."

When the Queen leaves, graciously bidding goodbye, Meltoriel turns to the prince.

"If you do not mind me asking, what does "ghivasha" mean?" She cannot pronounce the throaty consonants of the word, as she presumes, in Khuzdul, but he understands.

"My amad is unreasonably kind to me and calls me her treasure," He smiles with warmth, "I do not deserve her love, as no one is worthy of the love of the Queen of Erebor, but luckily for me, a mother's love is unconditional."

Meltoriel's heart flutters, and she thinks that perhaps the Queen is right and he is indeed the most precious treasure of Erebor.


	11. Othin Demands

OTHIN DEMANDS

_Middle Earth, original Wren and Thorin, Timeline#1_

_Wren's POV_

"Ada!" Othin's voice is irritated. He is glaring at you. You pretend to not hear him. He is supposed to be playing in his corner of the library, inside a playpen built specifically for him. None of your other children needed that much restriction. "Ada!" He sounds surprisingly like the King when he thinks he is not receiving something that is rightfully his. You lift your eyes from the book you are reading.

"Adad is busy, Othin. He cannot spend all his days with you. When he has time, he will come." Thick dark brows draw together.

"Ada..."

You sigh and get up. You come closer and scoot in front of the wooden bars. You felt heartbroken when the playpen was first commissioned. Keeping your own son in a cage seemed like an appalling idea, but after a seven-month Othin was found on the top shelf of one of the armouries you had no other choice. He manages to escape even the watchful eye of experienced Royal Guards.

"Would you like me to read you a book?" He smiles and stretches his hand to you. There is a toy wooden sword clenched in a small chubby fist. "You want me to fence with you, Othin?" He smiles wider. You take a sword out of his sweaty palm, and he grabs a shield. You sigh and climb over the fence. You kneel in front of him to equalize your height and gently move the sword towards him. You expect the rounded wooden tip to poke his round tummy but instead it hits the shield with a dull thud. Othin peeks from behind the shield and gives you his best mischievous grin.

He cannot yet stand but he is hiding behind a shield. You stare at him in shock. Then you poke again. He is swift, he even rolls into a tight ball, his sturdy little legs and arms not sticking out from behind the wooden circle.

You spend the next hour having so much fun that you do not notice the King entering the library. He finds you lying on the floor on your back, balancing your youngest son on your stretched arms, his stomach on your bent knees. Othin is squealing in delight.

"Ada!" You put him down and he is holding his hands out to the King. He gets picked up and twirled around the room. They both are laughing, and you smile enjoying the warmth and happiness of having these two men in your life. The King lowers Othin back into the playpen and picks up a sword.

"Would you like to play, Othin?"

The youngest prince of Erebor pouts in the exact replica of his father's expression and demandingly proclaims, "Ama!"


	12. Little Oakenshields and Trolls

LITTLE OAKENSHIELDS AND TROLLS

_Middle Earth, original Wren and Thorin, Timeline#1_

_Wren's POV_

"And then they started discussing whether they should roast us slowly, or…" The eyes of the children widen, and Dain presses closer to Othin. Othin is predictably smiling, but the little fists are clenched. The King leans closer, and you see Dain biting into his bottom lip in a miniature replica of your gesture. Unna, who heard this story before and is reading in her father's armchair, looks at you over the book. You are pressing your lips together to suppress a smile.

"Or what?" Dain breathes out, and Othin's eyes are roaming his father's face. The three of them are sitting on a fur rug by the fire, their legs crossed in identical poses.

"Or mince us and boil us!" The King makes a ferocious face, and the boys jump up. You hear a sound suspiciously sounding like a snort behind Unna's book. The King straightens up and makes a nonchalant face. "Well, they could also eat us raw of course, but then they thought that squashing us in jelly was the best option."

"And did they?" Othin's blue eyes are burning. Dain stirs out of his petrification.

"Are you dim, Othin? Does adad look squashed to you? Obviously they escaped!" Othin gives the King an evaluating lookover. The King's face is blank, his posture calm and poised, and you shake your head. He has an amazing talent for schooling his face in any expression he deems necessary.

"And how did you escape? Did you chop them in pieces with Orcrist?" Othin's ferocity knows no limits. Dain looks interested as well, he shows such exceptional gift with his wooden sword, that even older warriors come to observe his training. He is the youngest Dwarf to ever start his sword training in the yard as opposed to his own rooms.

"How would I chop them if we were in sacks?" The King is looking between his youngest sons.

"Did you have a hidden blade?"

"Did you bite the rope with your teeth?"

"Did you roll into the fire and the bag burnt?" The boys are shouting their assumptions interrupting each other. The King is shaking his head.

Othin claps his knee in disappointment, "Well, I do not know then…"

Suddenly Dain's face lights up, "Did amad save you?" The King hikes up his brows. From the corner of your eye, you can see Unna lowering her book and look at her father as well.

Othin rejoices, "Did she? Did she come and chop the trolls in pieces?"

Dain snorts derisively again, "Of course not, Othin, I am sure amad talked to them and convinced them to let adad and others go."

They both turn their heads and look at you. You are looking at your husband. He is smiling to you, and then turns to his sons and solemnly nods.

"Yes, amad came and saved us all." You start laughing.

"Do not listen to him, I was not on that quest. I did not even know your adad then." The children look at their father again.

"That is not how I remember it," the King's face is absolutely serious, "I remember the bushes moved, and your mother stepped out of them, in shining armour, blue cloak on her shoulders, a long Dwarven sword in her hand, and then she frowned… Do you know the frown?" The boys are nodding frantically, and to your surprise you see Unna's curly head nod as well. The book is forgotten on her lap, and she is listening to her father. "She frowned at them, and they started shaking in terror." The King's eyes are shining, and the children move closer. "She pulled the sword out of her scabbard," he seems to have forgotten that you supposedly had it in your hand when you heroically stepped out of the bushes, but the children do not notice, "And then she swirled it in her hand, and said in a very stern voice, 'Put the Dwarves down that very moment, or I will be very disappointed in you!'" The children are holding their breath.

"And?.." Dain's voice is full of hope.

"And they let us go. And cowardly ran away to the woods, never to be seen again." The children breath out in relief.

"You are lucky she came to save you, adad," Dain is shaking his head, "Or you would have been squashed or minced..." He shudders in disgust. "Not a very noble death…" The corners of the King's lips twitch. There is a limit even to his composure.

"I am an endlessly lucky Dwarf, Dain," the King ruffles his son's red curls. Othin is absorbed in his thoughts.

"Would not it be more heroic if you chopped them in pieces with Orcrist?" He looks at his father with his blue eyes, "Then you would be the hero and can have the treasure! And this way it is amad's treasure."

The King chuckles, "All my treasures are amad's treasures, Othin, we share everything. And no, it is very good that amad is the hero, I have her, and she is my treasure."

Othin wrinkles his nose, "Is it something about love and marriage again?" That is when you reach your limit. You start laughing loudly, and Unna joins. Othin looks at you in confusion.

"Why are you laughing, amad? Adad calls you his ghivashel all the time, and when you both have these mushy faces, then you two are talking about love and marriage, and that is much more boring than trolls and chopping in pieces with Orcrist."

The boys get up, it is time for them to return to their rooms. You embrace both of them, Dain lingering in your arms, Othin trying to escape quicker to save his face, but you know he expects you to stop by his room before his bedtime when he can indulge in hugging you without 'tarnishing the warrior's pride.'

In the door frame Othin turns around and looks at his father, "Thank you for the story, adad, it was still very interesting, although at the end it still became about mushy stuff." They leave, and Unna follows.

You come to the King, and he catches you around your waist. He seats you on his lap, and you wrap your arms around his neck. You draw your brows in a mock reproach.

"You have lied to your children, my lord. I definitely remember not being on this quest with you." He is nuzzling your neck and then presses an open-mouthed kiss to your throat.

"I think my story was much better than an old wizard distracting them and them turning in stone, while all of us were stuffed in bags like sheep," he is smiling into your skin.

"And what is it about me in shining armour and holding a long Dwarven sword, my lord?" Your tone is playful, and his palm slides on your backside.

"I do love my Queen in armour," he is sucking on your neck now, "Perhaps a sword and a helmet, and..." You drop your head back, and he is growling, "...and nothing else." You laugh throatily and grab handfuls of his hair.

"Well, since I saved you from death through squashing into jelly, I am entitled to some reward."

"Anything you want, my Queen." You lean in and whispers in his ear. His eyes widen, and he jumps on his feet, throwing you over his shoulder, your bum up. You squeal, that is not a very dignified position for a Queen. He guffaws and starts striding to your bedchambers.


End file.
